


Wrap Up My Bones

by Helholden



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e09 Party Guessed, F/M, Mindfuck, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 13:43:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2509862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helholden/pseuds/Helholden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has a beautiful face, all framed in silver along the curves and sharp angles—the face of a predator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrap Up My Bones

**Author's Note:**

> The rape/non-con warning on this fic is a very, very serious one. If you are triggered by rape scenarios or manipulative abuse scenarios, don't read this. It's graphic, unsettling, and very much meant to be. I've warned for it in the archive warnings on the fic as well as right here, so that's two warnings.
> 
> This takes place during the timeline of Season 2 Episode 9 "Party Guessed." Exactly where in the timeline, that is up to the reader to decide once all the facts are given.

* * *

 

She feels her back touch the mattress ever so softly, the sheets cool beneath her. Lydia isn’t sure how she got there. She didn’t move at all, but her body did of its own accord somehow. The weight above her is heavy, and her tongue is like lead in her mouth. She opens it to speak and feels lips press against the pulse point of her throat, laying a delicate kiss on her skin.

 

 _No_ , she wants to say. She screams it in her head, but no sound comes out.

 

The kisses trace a soft path up her neck to her jaw. She doesn’t see a face just yet. The room is blurry, the ceiling shifting from grey to blue to black, and she feels sick for a moment, but then the moment passes. A tongue grazes along the inner shell of her ear, and Lydia shudders, feeling fingers toy near her neck, touching her clavicles with soft, light traces, grazing the bare skin just above the collar of her nightshirt.

 

The mouth trails a kiss after kiss to the corner of her lips, and then he’s hovering over her finally, a halo of light over his hair.

 

Lydia blinks, a single tear rolling down her cheek from the corner of her eye.

 

 _Please, no_ , she mouths to him, because she can’t talk—she keeps trying, but not a single sound comes out. She can’t say a word. She can barely even move, but she doesn’t know why. She thinks she must be drugged, the way her sluggish mind refuses to let her fully utilize anything but her eyes and some small muscles here or there. The way reality blurs and seems like a dream.

 

Suddenly, a fear spikes in her with the realization of what that means.

 

She can’t fight him.

 

“ _Tut-tut-tut_ ,” his tongue clicks behind pursed lips. Above her, Peter shakes his head. “We talked about this, Lydia.” He leans in close, his warm breath washing over her face. “All you have to do,” he murmurs, “is everything I ask.”

 

 _No_ , she tries to say, but as she opens her mouth, he captures her lips with his and slides his tongue into her mouth, grazing it over hers slowly. Peter deepens the kiss when she doesn’t move, his lips pressing into hers harder, and she feels him press his hips against her as well. His erection is stiff and horrifying; Lydia feels it press against her stomach, churning her insides as they surge in protest.

 

He pulls away from her mouth, breathing on her skin through his lips.

 

“You’re going to feel it, Lydia,” Peter says softer than before, his fingers grazing along her cheek. It takes her a moment to realize they are not fingers, but claws. “Everything I do to you, you are going to feel it. You are going to love it. You are going to _want_ it. You’re going to beg—”

 

“ _Pleaseno_ ,” Lydia chokes out, but the words come out as a slurred hiss.

 

“See?” Peter says. “We’re already off to a good start.”

 

Another tear rolls out of the corner of her eye as Peter kisses her jaw once, then twice, and descends down her body. He slowly unbuttons her nightshirt, parting the material, and places the lightest of kisses on her bare skin. She isn’t wearing a bra. Lydia cries in silence, the tears falling one after another as his mouth hovers over her breast. Peter breathes on it, hardening her nipple, before taking it into his mouth.

 

Lydia closes her eyes, a warmth surging through her body. His hand massages her other breast, kneading it and squeezing it gently.

 

It feels so good, which is wrong. Everything is wrong. Lydia doesn’t want to, but she responds to his ministrations as he moves slowly and cautiously along the planes of her body, mapping it out with his tongue and hands. A tingling desire pools low in her abdomen; then lower, between her legs. She wants to scream, to kick at him, and get away, but Peter flicks his tongue over her nipple, and she arches into his mouth instead because small movement seems the only thing she is even capable of.

 

He runs his hand down the center of her chest to her stomach, sliding it over her hip. Blunt nails graze along the sensitive skin above the waistband of her pajama pants. Lydia’s stomach clenches suddenly, her body shuddering, but whether it’s in revulsion or pleasure, she doesn’t know. Maybe it’s both. Her eyes are dry by now, but they burn from the salt of her former tears. Her cheeks are streaked and sticky, her lips just as dry as her eyes.

 

The room swims with an unexpected lurch. _It’s just a dream_ , she thinks. He isn’t real. _He isn’t real_ , she repeats to herself, but the sensation of his weight above her seems real enough, and her head lolls to the side. Lydia feels as if she is drugged, but she can’t recall anything she drank or ate that might have made her feel this way.

 

She doesn’t even remember where she was ten minutes ago.

 

 _It’s just a dream_ , she says to herself again, blinking up at a blurred ceiling. _It’s just a bad dream_. The spinning sensation inside of her brain elicits a distraught moan from her lips. Lydia reaches up, trying to grasp for something solid to steady her. Her fingers find his shoulders, and she grips hard, a sob wracking her chest.

 

“Shh,” Peter says, coming back up her body to kiss her mouth. He is gentle with her, and she responds amidst her confusion and fear—kissing him back, trying to hold onto the back of his head, but her hand fumbles. It slips and falls back to the bed. She doesn’t have the strength to hold it up yet.

 

Their lips break, and Lydia heaves in deep breaths. It’s about the only thing she can do. She tries to make the world be still through sheer force of will, but her mind doesn’t have that kind of power.

 

She is hardly moving at all, but she feels like she is everywhere at once.

 

“Please,” she begs on the verge of tears. Her voice is growing stronger, but it still cracks. “Ma—make—make it _stop_ —”

 

Peter runs his hand over her hair and kisses her cheek, then the other, and nestles his nose against hers. “Just relax,” he says softly. “If you relax, Lydia, it’ll all get better. I promise.”

 

He pulls back far enough to kiss her nose, and Lydia closes her eyes and exhales slowly.

 

His lips kiss a trail down her nose to her mouth, to her jaw, and then to her chest once more. She tries to listen to his words. If she just relaxes, it will all get better. She just needs to relax, like he said, so she closes her eyes as his tongue flicks over her nipple before suckling it, causing her back to arch. His attention for her breasts grows overzealous as he sucks and licks and nips at them until they are bruised red from his teeth, his other hand roaming freely over the curves of her stomach and chest.

 

Eventually, she even forgets why she was protesting. He is right, after all. It gets better as she relaxes, and then his attention turns lower down her body. As he leaves her chest, the air freezes along the trails of his saliva. Lydia shivers at that, and then she feels his tongue lick her tummy.

 

She moans softly and raises her hips, and his fingers curl beneath the elastic band of her pajama pants as well as her panties. He pulls them down to her thighs and pauses there, his tongue flicking out to graze one of her thighs and then the other until she shudders beneath his touch.

 

Lydia feels him slip one of his hands between her legs. She trembles as she feels his finger graze her intimately; she is slick, her body turned on against her will.

 

Peter hums pleasurably at this discovery, cupping her lower lips with two digits as he slides his middle finger inside her. Lydia’s hips buck of their own accord, her mind slipping further from her, her legs spreading further as well—but they are blocked by the waistband pinching them together.

 

“Mmm, good girl,” he says, sliding his finger in and out of her.

 

“Please—”

 

“You want another?” he inquires softly, and Peter slips a second finger inside of her along with the first one, pulling them out and pushing back deeper in unison with the roll of Lydia’s hips that have developed a mind of their own. With the blur in her mind, she can’t remember why she protested at all; it feels so good. It all feels so good. There is no reason to be upset.

 

She gasps, wanting to feel his fingers deeper, and grinds down onto his hand to not lose the one sensation she can lock onto in the spinning room.

 

“You’re such a good girl, Lydia,” Peter says softly, breath ghosting over her skin as he works his fingers in her. “Perfect. That’s perfect. Keep doing that . . . ”

 

He kisses the curve at the top of her hip just above the fine dust of trimmed hair. A muscle there jumps pleasurably at the touch of his lips, and she moans, so he pumps his fingers faster. She moves her hips to match it.

 

When he curls his fingers upward inside of her, Lydia gasps and spreads her legs more. The waistband of her pants cuts into her flesh, blocking her from going too far. Peter withdrawals his hand abruptly, causing a shudder to pulse through her lower body. A whine escapes her lips at the loss of being filled.

 

Briefly, in the back of her mind, she registers the hands grasping her pants and pulling them off until she is naked beneath him.

 

His hands part her legs slowly, and Lydia feels a heavy weight settle in between them. She rolls her head forward, looking up at him again, but everything is a haze of black and blue highlighted in a soft white glow. His face is a blur, but it’s a beautiful face, all framed in silver along the curves and sharp angles. He leans in closer, and then he engages her mouth again—slow, but forceful kisses. Lydia reaches up as she returns them, her arm as clumsy as her hand as she tries to cup the back of his head, but he doesn’t seem to mind her lack of coordination.

 

Peter breaks the kiss, and then he pulls back far enough to put his arm between their bodies. Lydia hears the clink of a metal buckle followed by the sound of a zipper. She gazes downward, frowning at the realization that his clothes are still on, even his black jacket—he is fully clothed from head to toe, and she is naked, save for an unbuttoned nightshirt hanging off to either side of her chest, which only covers her arms.

 

He isn’t naked because this isn’t about pleasure.

 

He is fully clothed while she is naked because this is all about power.

 

When he pushes into her, that’s when Lydia remembers. She remembers because he is bigger than Jackson, and even the preparation of his hand doesn’t prevent the discomfort that pinches her mind halfway back to the reality of her situation. She clutches his shoulders hard, pushing at him. “ _No_ —”

 

Peter assaults her mouth with his own to silence her protest. He thrusts his hips with an exigency to cause her focus to shift off of her panic onto the sensations he can provide inside of her body. The mild discomfort becomes replaced by unwanted sensations of pleasure, and Lydia starts crying again even as her body aches with enjoyment. She clutches helplessly to his shoulders because she is unable to push him away. “Please, no—”

 

Lydia doesn’t want to be turned on by it. She doesn’t want to feel pleasure from an act so horrifying. It should hurt, but he won’t let it. She doesn’t want her body to respond with normal tingles and pulses from sex—but that’s what _he_ wants.

 

He wants to own her, to have control over her, in mind as well as body.

 

Peter could have ripped her clothes off. He could have ravaged her violently. He could have not cared if he penetrated her while she was dry and unprepared. He could’ve caused nothing but screams and pain, but that isn’t enough for him.

 

That would never be enough for him.

 

Peter wants her to remember it all with perfect clarity—how good it felt to have him pleasuring her, to have him inside of her, not just in mind but in body—and Lydia will because with each drive of his hips, the drugged feeling slips away from her. Each thrust feels realer, deeper, and with each sound that she chokes down into her throat, she clutches him tighter—not just her arms and her hands, but her legs tighten over his hips and her ankles cross to keep her grip on him firmly in place.

 

 _Who overcomes by force, hath overcome but half his foe_. Lydia isn’t sure where the words in her head come from as Peter drives into her. A piece of literature she read for school, maybe. It’s such a numb thought to have, even as she has given up trying to physically fight it anymore. She feels it, and she knows he knows, but her throat feels detached from the rest of her as it releases little moans with each sensation of him filling her whole. A strained groan from his lips resonates in her ear, and her nails dig even deeper into his neck and scalp as he slides in and out of her with ease.

 

He wants to overcome her mind, not just her body.

 

He wants all of her.

 

All of her.

 

Peter rises to kneel between her legs. He parts her further, pinning them against the bed by her knees and involuntarily raising the lower half of her body from the mattress. He begins a new rhythm inside of her, sinking in deep and sending shocks throughout each and every nerve at her core. Lydia grasps the bed sheets, clutching them helplessly, as throbs of pleasure pulse deep within when he hits the right spot and fills her up all the way. When he adds a thumb to her clit as he thrusts, her vision fails her as a violent orgasm rips through each nerve ending in her body. Lydia cries out, half in pleasure and half in anguish, shuddering and gripping the sheets. Peter leans over her without giving her a moment’s reprieve, seeking his final mark in claiming her.

 

Lydia knows it’s happened when he stills above her. There is nothing but a faint exhalation to announce his release, and he lowers his head to her chest, his face between her breasts.

 

She remains as still as a statue, staring up at a ceiling that seems all too clear now compared to how it seemed before—blurry, murky uncertainty.

 

Sharp, crystal clarity.

 

She thinks he’s done with her. She thinks it’s finally over.

 

Peter lifts his head from her chest, and then she sees his hand in the dark—cast in a silver gleam, his claws look poisonous. He looks right down at her, raising his chin.

 

He slashes her chest.

 

Lydia screams and shoots up from the bed, sobbing as she scrambles against the headboard. She manages to halfway wriggle out of the sheets before she realizes she is alone in her room. Alone in her bed. Her eyes dart around her room, which is empty of any presence but her own.

 

Heaving in a deep breath, she shudders as she exhales it back out again.

 

Lydia wants to cry as she wraps her arms around herself, but it was just a dream. _It’s only a dream_ , she reminds herself, over and over again, for what seems like an hour, but her heart can’t seem to calm down.

 

She sobs it all out until she can’t breathe.

 

When she finally manages to calm down again, she is lying in bed with her eyes shut because she can’t bear to look at her ceiling one more time tonight, dream or no dream. She turns over onto her stomach to put her face into her pillow, but a sharp pain lances through her chest, and Lydia hisses as she pushes herself up by the palms of her hands.

 

Gently, she touches her chest.

 

It still hurts.

 

A sinking feeling opens up in the bottom of her stomach, and slowly, Lydia slips her hand beneath her shirt.

 

Her fingers touch a sore cut, and she jumps, lurches, scrambles off the bed as she gulps for air. Popping the buttons on her nightshirt, she looks down and sees a scratch mark just above her left breast—right above her heart.

 

Her jaw begins to tremble. _No, no, no, it was just a dream_. Lydia panics, using the logical part of her brain to think of all the ways of how she could’ve cut herself in her sleep. It’s entirely possible. She’s done it before. It’s nothing. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not even that deep. Her own nail made the mark. It’s nothing. _It’s nothing_.

 

For one peaceful instant, Lydia convinces herself. She wants to laugh. She wants to cry. She can’t make up her mind, so she does both, bringing the back of her hand to her mouth as she laughs and cries in equal measures of joy and relief. It’s the dream. She won’t be okay for a while, not until the tremors leave her. It had felt so real, and the fear is still palpable in her veins as her heart beats too fast in her chest.

 

She can breathe easy again, a soft smile playing upon her lips. She breathes deep, in and out, closes her eyes and lets her head tilt back. When a minute passes, she finally gains the courage to walk towards her bedroom door to go downstairs for a glass of water to drink, for a reason to walk around—anything other than be in this room for one more second.

 

As she reaches for the handle, gravity finally catches up with her. Lydia feels the tickling sensation of a soft trickle down the inside of her thigh.

 

She stills, frozen to the bone, her hand hovering an inch above the door handle.

 

In the stillness, her hand begins to shake.

 

 


End file.
